


two's company, three's a crowd

by picturelyuniverse



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Cockblocking, Episode: s03e04 The Enterprise Incident, F/M, Flirting, M/M, Oblivious Spock, POV Outsider
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-01-22
Packaged: 2019-03-08 02:58:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,619
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13449084
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/picturelyuniverse/pseuds/picturelyuniverse
Summary: An episode tag to s03e04 “The Enterprise Incident” that details the Romulan Commander’s perspective of her short time aboard the Enterprise and her observation of the curious relationship between Commander Spock and Captain Kirk. Otherwise known as “the time James T Kirk thinks he is being subtle about his jealousy, the Romulan Commander is cock-blocked, and Spock is oblivious to all the drama”.





	two's company, three's a crowd

**Author's Note:**

> So my overactive brain won’t stop replaying Kirk’s soft, considering look as he touches his fake Romulan ears in response to Spock’s clear dismissal (“somehow they do not look aesthetically agreeable on a Human”); I’m imagining Kirk going “zomg does this mean it looks aesthetically agreeable on Romulans instead does Spock maybe fancy the Romulan Commander instead of me” mostly because I don’t believe Kirk wouldn’t not manage to connect the dots between the Romulan Commander’s state of attire and the nature of the activities that were happening between his First and the Commander in her quarters. 
> 
> This is basically 2.6k words of James T Kirk trying to be subtle about his jealousy and the Romulan Commander realising his cockblocking ways. This might just be an excuse to rehash the whole POV Outsider and oblivious!Spock tropes because they’re just frigging precious imo. Also, the way the Commander sees Kirk looking at Spock in this fic? I swear I’m not exaggerating much because it’s basically the way he does it in TOS episodes.

“Will you join me in these quarters for dinner later?”

It was only because she was watching him very closely that she noticed an almost imperceptible tick in his eyebrow, a miniscule hitch in his otherwise carefully placid expression. It felt at odds with the conversation they just had in the turbolift; beneath the succinctly-worded dialogue, she was certain she had not imagined the mutual regard and undercurrents of intimacy.

Vulcans were masters of subtlety. In that aspect, she, and her fellow Romulans, deviated somewhat from their distant cousins. Yet, the ties of shared ancestry binding them together spoke of a deep, underlying passion, of strong emotions that lie beneath the surface. After all, she herself caught a glimpse of that, a sense of restrained passion, beneath Spock’s proper demeanour in her own quarters aboard her ship, and their little exchange just moments before dispelled any doubts that what he did was nothing more than a mere act of subterfuge. Perhaps it had started out so; it was clear that his loyalty to his ship and his captain ran deep. However, without the need for further pretence, his admission was telling indeed. 

The moment was interrupted by the shrill whistle of the intercom. The commander seemed to stiffen even further, if that were even possible, considering how he was already standing with perfect military posture.

“Spock here.”  His tone was crisp, curt even.

“Ah, Commander,” the voice that filtered through the intercom was undoubtedly that of the captain’s. She remembers the human captain’s voice to be strongly authoritative while giving out commands on the bridge, although not without a certain warm, charismatic tonality to it; here, that warmth seemed to be oddly amplified, transforming even impersonal titles into a thing of familiarity.

“Captain,” there was a hint of surprise colouring Spock’s voice, quickly smoothened over by his next words, “Is my presence required back on the bridge quite so soon?”   

She was debating whether to simply enter the quarters herself, dinner invitation be damned, but his riposte, or rather the tone in which he delivered his reply, stopped her in her tracks. The words themselves were innocuous enough, but she was willing to bet two tankards of her best Romulan ale that there was an underlying vein of humour to it.

Most curious.

The captain certainly found it to be more than just curious; the soft chuckle, made tinny through the intercom, still managed to convey both mirth and fondness all at once.

“When you put it that way, Mr. Spock… No, no, take your time. I just remembered that I’d like to see you for that debrief in meeting room 2 at 1800 hours, maybe catch up on a chess game or two in my quarters later at night?”  

She just managed to stop herself from raising an eyebrow at the almost intimate register in which the captain delivered his last request. She considers the possibility that Kirk was unaware of his second-in-command’s location but immediately dismisses the idea; after all, it was the captain who sent him to escort her to her quarters. Perhaps he believed Spock to have completed his task, and was in the midst of returning to the bridge. Still, she was not entirely convinced; the logic of hailing the Commander to inform him of such a request when he could easily have done so upon his return to the bridge was clearly suspect.

“Certainly, Captain. Spock out.”  From the obvious quirk of his brow, Spock seemed to be in a state of perplexity himself, although none of that was evident in his reply to the captain.

Turning away from the intercom at last, Spock made to escort her into the quarters but she shook her head imperceptibly and stepped through the doorway herself. Over the swish of the automatic doors, she repeated her question again, not one to be easily stymied by a lack of immediate response or interventions by Starfleet captains.

“Regarding your invitation, Commander, if my duty permits, I shall join you at 1900 hours.”

With a brief incline of his head, Spock took his leave.

She was left musing if the double entendre was wholly intended; as if she required another reminder of the necessities of duty, and how duty has made the choice for both of them. In fact, she wondered if it was solely upon duty that his decision hinged upon, or if a certain human Captain had a hand in the eventual acceptance/rejection of the invitation.

Most curious indeed.

* * *

 Never let it be said that Vulcans were not creatures of honour. At exactly 1900 hours, the door chime to the quarters she was residing in sounded, more out of courtesy than anything, she suspected. Even though her current accommodations were clearly a step up from the brig, it was apparent to her that she was not entirely a guest aboard the Enterprise. That was not to say that she was not looking forward to being able to be among her people again, although what her punishment would be for having lost the cloaking device in pursuit of capturing the Enterprise as a trophy (an admirable endeavour that she nonetheless failed in) still remained to be seen.

“Come.” It was most agreeable, at least, to retain some modicum of privacy and dignity, although she was under no illusion that Spock, or any other officer could enter these quarters as they see fit, should she appear to pose a security threat to the ship.  She rose from her reclined position on the bed.

Spock came to a stop just shy of the sleeping alcove, hands clasped behind his back. His uniform was pressed and pristine, the picture of military propriety and for a brief, absurd moment, she felt wildly disappointed that he had not thought to return the favour she had accorded him in her quarters earlier on.

“The captain shall be joining us momentarily.”

“Indeed? I see you have extended the invitation to him,” she kept her face neutral but intentionally allowed some of her accusatory disbelief to bleed through in her voice.

“The captain is… adamant that he sees to any guest aboard the ship.”

To a less perceptive individual, the fleeting flicker of his gaze and the phrasing of his words would mean little; however, it was clear as day to her that Kirk had invited himself along, despite his second-in-command’s admirable efforts to depict it otherwise.

In the silence that stretched on, Spock uncharacteristically cleared his throat and made a motion toward the replicator, “Perhaps we might begin with our dinner selection while we wait for the captain.”

As she brushed past him on her way to the replicator, she contemplated Kirk’s intentions. It was possible that the captain felt ill at ease with her in the guest quarters rather than in the brig, as protocol dictated; however, from what she has seen of him, Kirk could be rather unorthodox when he chose to be, and an experienced commander like him would hardly have made the decision to forgo protocol without due consideration. Perhaps he did not trust his second-in-command to be alone in her presence? His verbal intervention when she was being shown to her quarters certainly seemed indicative of a superfluous level of observation, incongruous with the rank that Spock possessed and the seamless way that the two of them had worked together. However, she was wary of making assumptions about the personal nature of the relationship between Spock and his superior without greater opportunity for observation of the rapport between them, despite an unusual, lingering sense of certainty.

Perhaps mistaking her silent contemplation for hesitation, Spock offered, “While I must apologise that we could not have prepared Romulan dishes that would be more pleasing to your palate, I have generally learnt that one cannot go wrong with the Terran vegetable casserole.”

“Of course,” she held his gaze, tone lowering into a warmer register, “I shall defer to your good judgement.”

The door chime sounded and she broke her gaze, concealing her irritation by busying herself with the replicator controls. There could only be one individual outside the quarters at this moment.

Right on cue, Kirk strode through the door, his greeting almost lost in the swish of the automatic doors. Finished with her selection, she turned to face the captain.

“Captain,” she intoned, canting her head slightly to the side in greeting.

“Commander,” Kirk’s voice was amiable, his face graced by the slightest ghost of a smile. It was an almost amusing repeat performance of their final exchange on the bridge hours before.

The moment faded into the background as Kirk turned to his second-in-command, his smile widening into a soft grin. “Why, Mr Spock, punctual as always.”

She wondered if she was imagining how his smile seemed impossibly brighter when Spock merely cocked his head. “Indeed, Captain. The commander and I were about to make our selections for dinner. May I inquire as to your preference this evening?”  

“I think I’ll leave myself in your capable hands, Mr Spock,” Kirk chuckled. Pulling out one of the seats, he gestured for her to sit, ever the chivalrous gentleman. Once again, she found herself wondering if Kirk was aware of the erotic significance of Vulcan hands, and the unmistakeable innuendo in his words. From the rakish tilt of his head and the gleam in his eye as he watched his First pick out their selections, she was convinced that Kirk knew very well what he was doing. She pursed her lips but did not lend voice to her thoughts as a plate of piping hot casserole was placed in front of her.

Spock returned with his and Kirk’s selections, taking a seat next to his captain. Of course, she thought, eyes narrowed. Growing suspicion about Kirk’s behaviour aside, she took a moment to inspect the other two plates on the table.

Noticing her curious examination, Kirk carelessly twirled some of the pasta onto his fork. “Italian is a personal favourite,” he explained, “although nothing from the replicators can beat the real deal of an actual Terran restaurant.”

“And you, Spock? You are partial to Italian?” she questioned idly.

Spock, who was methodically coiling some of the linguine into tight, neat loops around his own fork, paused and seemed to actually deliberate over his reply. “While it is not at all similar to dishes of my home-world, I have found it to be unexpectedly pleasing to my palate.”

She inclined her head but did not inquire as to how he came to even partake of this Terran cuisine. Increasingly, she found that many questions she had had were quickly being answered by virtue of intuition and observation.

The ensuing silence was broken only by the clinking of cutlery. The captain seemed content to work leisurely at his plate of pasta, occasionally brushing elbow or shoulder with Spock; what was more telling, perhaps, was the lack of reaction on Spock’s part in response to such casual familiarity.

“Spock, I must confess to some ambivalence about your assessment of the standard of cuisine served aboard your ship,” she broke the silence as she speared a small square of the casserole she had cut out and chewed with some measure of satisfaction.

She was well aware that, on some level, this whole dinner was a farce; she, the disgraced enemy, playing the role of inquisitive guest, and them, the unequivocal victors of the skirmish (this one, at any rate), playing the part of polite and accommodating hosts. What kind of dinner conversation could they possibly make that did not trespass dangerously into the territory of military secrets in their line of their work? Yet, it had not seemed quite as inane when she had conversed with Spock aboard her ship; she admitted that perhaps conversation alone was not at the forefront of her mind at that time.

“Indeed?” One of his brows climbed a tick higher on his forehead, the only indicator of surprise. “I am gratified that you find your meal acceptable then.”

It was her turn to chuckle at his response. On another man, it would have most certainly been a laughable attempt at being charming; on Spock, his perplexity was refreshingly frank and almost attractive.  

“Surely you must exaggerate when you say that the cuisine aboard my ship makes for a fine recruiting inducement,” she continued, lips just barely upturned, taking great care to non-verbally imply that perhaps that was not quite the inducement  _she_ had in mind, “although I must admit, I am not certain I would be content to be apart from the uniquely pleasant aspects of my ship.”

“Well, Commander, it would seem that despite our differences, we do have rather similar tastes for the finer things in life,” Kirk replied evenly, although the soft intensity in his gaze as he glanced sideways at his second-in-command belied the true weight of the meaning of his words. If it was not clear enough before, the exact nature of Kirk’s regard for his second-in-command was now most evident. In fact, the unreadable human gaze that she now held led her to believe that he was most certainly aware of her own intentions, as she was of his.

Certain observations were beginning to coalesce in her mind, quickly and with a great deal of finality. She laughed then, a low, melodic sound that was equal parts mirth, equal parts comprehension.

“An astute observation, Captain, most astute indeed,” she murmured.

* * *

 The rest of the dinner passed in a considerably more amiable fashion; the captain was noticeably more relaxed as he spoke at length about Terran literature, one of several other harmless topics, and made enquiries in kind about her home-world. For the duration of the dinner, she could almost forget that she was essentially in enemy hands and the uncertainty of her future back in her home-world. 

Later, in the transporter room as the Enterprise docked at Starbase 23, she found her mind strangely clear as she stepped onto the transporter pad. 

“Live long and prosper, Spock,” she raised the customary ta’al and was, for a moment, struck by the wildly different nature of the ta’al she last made in his presence. As memories went, it was hardly the most enduring but it was certainly less fleeting than any military secret; without a shadow of a doubt, she knew it was only a matter of weeks (or less) that they would find a way to counter the cloaking device that now lies in Federation hands and render it obsolete. She intended to be the engine behind that; it would be a fitting form of penance, and perhaps even a chance at reprisal at the Federation.

"Peace and long life," Spock's face was neutral as he uttered his reply, his voice lowering to a register audible only to Vulcanoids, “Liviana Charvanek.”

She was beginning to think that he had forgotten about that exchange. Spoken in his measured baritone, it was rare and beautiful indeed but as he commented aboard her ship, so incongruous when spoken by a soldier. She allowed only hint of a smile to play upon her lips as she held his gaze for a brief moment but her posture was the picture of military exactness when she turned to face Kirk.

"Captain," she acknowledged.

"Commander," Kirk returned with similar equanimity, mouth quirked in a genial smile.

Nodding at the ensign manning the transporter controls, Kirk gave the command to energise. As the shimmer of the transporter beam filled the periphery of her vision, she watched as the captain turned to Spock, the smile on his face transformed by genuine affection.

A most remarkable opponent in every sense of the word, she mused. 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> So, there goes my first foray into the Trek fandom proper as a fic writer after lurking on here for so long! And this new gal is currently beta-less so if anyone's interested to beta any future pieces, please hmu! I will be eternally grateful ;) 
> 
> Hope you guys enjoyed it and any concrit/comments will def make my day! <3


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